


A Discreet Intervention

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Episode Related, Gen, Meddling, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate asks El for a favor. (Missing scenes from the pilot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Discreet Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> For wc_rewatch and the Roses challenge on fan_flashworks. A million thanks to mergatrude for beta.

El was at her florist’s, discussing table centerpieces for an upcoming wedding, when she caught one of the customers near the roses watching her in the mirror behind the counter. The young woman looked vaguely familiar—straight brown hair, pale skin, slim—but El couldn’t place her, and the woman averted her gaze and left soon after. It was probably nothing.

The consultation over, El left to head back to the Burke Premiere showroom, but halfway down the block, someone grabbed her arm and yanked her into the shadow of a newsagent stand. El tightened her grip on her handbag and jerked her arm free, turning to yell at her assailant, but when she saw who it was, she stopped, startled. She’d been grabbed by the customer from the florist’s store, wearing sunglasses now, but definitely the same woman. El glared. “Do I know you?”

“You’re Elizabeth Burke.” The woman shoved her hands into her pockets, not the least bit apologetic. 

El stood up straighter. Including her heels, they were about the same height, and El didn’t feel threatened, but she also didn’t appreciate being manhandled. “You’re following me.” 

“I’m Kate. Kate Moreau.” Her chin came up. “Can we talk?”

Oh. El’s indignation evaporated. In one week, Neal Caffrey was being released into Peter’s custody as his criminal informant. And much as El knew she should refer Kate to Peter, if she had information about Neal, El’s own curiosity overrode that option. “Well… I suppose I could use a cup of coffee.”

There was a Starbucks across the street. They went in, Kate trailing a few yards behind, and while El was ordering, Kate chose a table away from the window. She sat with her back to the wall and a clear sightline to the door, and only then pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. El sat opposite and reassessed her: Kate was tense and wary but hiding it well. Older than she seemed from a distance—maybe late twenties. “Do you need help?”

Kate shook her head, then grimaced. “I need a favor.”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to my husband?”

“It’s not safe.” Kate picked up the coffee El had bought her and wrapped her hands around it as if she were chilled. “I can’t talk to the FBI.”

“I’m happy to pass on a message,” offered El, but Kate shook her head again. El decided not to argue. “What’s the favor?”

“Take care of Neal.” Kate met her eye, her gaze blue and compelling. “Be on his side.”

El bit back her instinctive response—that if there were sides to be taken, she’d be on Peter’s; she’d always be on Peter’s—and offered Kate sympathy. “You still love him.”

Kate ducked her head and didn’t reply.

“Tell me about him,” said El. “I only know what Peter’s told me from the case file. What’s he really like?” 

Kate licked her lips and started to talk, hesitantly at first, and obviously careful not to incriminate either of them in any crimes, focusing instead on their personal relationship. She painted a picture of a brilliant, passionate, ambitious young man with a hunger for the finer things in life, and by halfway through the conversation, El could already see problems looming in Peter and Neal’s upcoming partnership. Peter believed in starting from the bottom and working to earn concessions, but Neal didn’t sound like the type to be kept in line with rules and hardship. If anything, El guessed deprivation would only make him restless and rebellious, and a restless Neal Caffrey could wreak havoc, not just with his own work release but with Peter’s career, with their lives.

“Thank you for telling me about him,” she told Kate. “I’ll do what I can.”

“If you need to get in touch with me, email me at this address.” Kate slid a slip of paper across the table. There was no name on it, just _In Case of Emergency_ and an address consisting of a long string of gibberish at gmail.com. “Don’t tell Neal we spoke.”

The “or Peter” was implicit, and El had no intention of sharing this particular conversation with Peter anyway. It wouldn’t do any good—he’d tell her that Kate was implicated in many of Neal’s crimes and couldn’t be trusted. 

El already knew that. She didn’t trust Kate, but she did believe her. She tucked the emergency email into her purse and stood up. “Good luck.”

“You go first,” said Kate. She’d relaxed while talking about Neal, but now the wariness snapped back into place. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

 

*

 

Peter worked late that night, but the next night, over dinner, El casually asked how preparations were going for Neal’s release. “Where will he be staying?”

Peter grimaced. “That’s another headache—there’s no budget for accommodation. They expect me to house him for seven hundred a month.”

“In Manhattan.” El’s heart sank. “What are you supposed to do, rent him a parking space?”

“Exactly.” Peter rubbed his temple. “I thought he was going to end up on a bench in Central Park, but Di found a hotel.”

“For seven hundred.” El bit her lip. Apparently Kate had been right to be concerned. “How bad is it? Is it even safe?”

Peter looked grim, then sighed and shrugged. “It will build character. Neal could use a reality check. Frankly, that’s the least of my worries. There’s already pushback from the higher ups. Hughes has been told to proceed with extreme caution, and the marshals are trying to palm off responsibility for the anklet onto the Bureau. If Neal so much as sneezes—”

“You know, hon, we have a spare room.” El said it neutrally, torn between pity for Neal and Kate and reluctance to give up the privacy of their family home, but the thought of Neal, newly out of prison, dumped in some fleapit hotel, which was no doubt populated with criminals, drug addicts and other desperate souls down on their luck—that was a recipe for disaster. And it wasn’t fair. At least prison was _clean_.

But Peter shook his head. “I’m not bringing him home. He’s a felon, not a pet. Anyway, there’s no chance Hughes would authorize that kind of arrangement, trust me.”

He said it as if he’d already floated the idea and been shot down. 

El refilled his wineglass and topped up her own. “So, where exactly is this fleapit reality check?”

Peter blinked and gave her a serious look. “Honey, this is Neal Caffrey we’re talking about. You can’t get invested.”

El nodded. “No, I know. It’s none of my business.”

She let him change the subject.

But she couldn’t let it rest. The Bureau might think the best way to manage Neal was to keep him down, and Peter might have no choice but to go along with that, but the FBI’s attitude to criminals was, by necessity, less than sensitive. For Peter’s sake, and for Kate’s, El had to intervene. So later that night, while Peter was brushing his teeth, she dipped into his briefcase for Neal’s file, and found the address of the hotel in question.

She’d stop by tomorrow and check it out herself. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. It might be exactly what Neal needed.

 

*

 

It was worse than El had imagined. Just pushing through the front door made her feel dirty. Depression and damp seemed to hang in the air. Even Satchmo would have baulked at sleeping there. 

El backed out, wiped her hands on her skirt and went back to work, determined to find a solution. Peter had enough on his plate with all the red tape and the Dutchman case; she’d handle it herself.

That afternoon, she was going over a guest list for a charity event, still mulling Neal’s predicament in the back of her mind, when a possibility occurred to her. She made a couple of calls, with some discreet enquiries, and that afternoon she visited a certain well-appointed residence on Riverside Drive.

“Mrs. Ellington,” she said, shaking her hostess’s hand. “I’m Elizabeth Burke. We met at the winter charity auction last year.”

“I remember. Won’t you come in,” said Mrs. Ellington. “And please, call me June.”

El relaxed. June was precisely as she recalled: smart and stylish, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Even if she rejected El’s suggestion out of hand, she wouldn’t take offence or gossip far and wide. El allowed herself to be ushered into the parlor and accepted June’s offer of tea. They made small talk until the refreshments arrived—including some exquisite home-made macaroons—and then, when they were alone again, June leaned forward.

“Now, my dear, I can tell this isn’t merely a social call. What can I do for you?”

El donned her best conspiratorial grin. “I have a—an unorthodox proposition. You live alone, don’t you?”

“Most of the time, apart from my staff. My granddaughter is at art school, and she stays with me during her vacations. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware my husband works for the FBI.”

June’s expression remained polite, but her demeanor cooled noticeably. She said nothing, waiting.

El hurried on, explaining about Neal and his imminent work release. “As you might imagine, the FBI’s accommodation budget is somewhat lacking. There’s a hotel, but—” She wrinkled her nose. “From what I know, he’s extremely personable. And obviously, you’d want to meet him before you decided anything, but if you should decide to help him, I’m willing to supplement his stipend with services rendered.”

June arched a delicate eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Event management,” said El. “For your charitable enterprises. At cost.”

“My dear, that’s an exceptionally charitable offer in itself. May I enquire as to your interest in the matter?” She eyed El shrewdly. “I don’t think you’re here on behalf of your husband or the FBI.”

“No.” El let out an awkward laugh. “I’m actually hoping Peter never finds out I’ve interfered. But Neal has already served four years. He escaped for love, didn’t hurt or threaten anyone in the process, and he was free less than eight hours before the FBI sent him back to prison with a broken heart. And he was sentenced to another four years as a result. I believe in the law, but I also think it can be cruel.”

June regarded her over her bone china teacup. “You like him.”

“I’ve never met him,” admitted El. “But Peter likes him, and I trust his judgement.” She relayed some of what Kate had told her about Neal, his ambition and expensive tastes. “And you see, my husband is a good man, but his work ethic is rather strict. So I suppose I feel it’s in everyone’s interest to make sure Neal isn’t tempted to—improve his situation using his old methods, if you know what I mean.”

June’s smile was warm again now, if a little wry. “You’re aware you may be being conned as we speak.”

El had considered the possibility, but Kate had come to her without any prompting from Neal; if they were in contact, Peter would know. “A con requires deception. This—this is charity.”

“They’re not always mutually exclusive, you know,” said June, with a shake of her head. “One final question: why come to me?”

“Forgive me,” said El. “I’ve heard the rumors about your late husband. I thought you might be sympathetic. And having met you, I was pretty sure you could handle yourself—and keep Neal in line, too, if it comes to that.”

June looked pleased. “Well, I’ll certainly take that as a compliment.” She tapped her manicured thumbnail against her teacup thoughtfully. “I suppose there’s no harm in meeting the man. How shall we arrange it?”

 

*

 

That evening when they were walking Satchmo, El asked Peter, “Does the FBI give its CIs an allowance?”

Peter was cleaning up after Satchmo. He stood and eyed El suspiciously. “You’re taking an active interest in Neal’s release. What’s going on?”

“I’m just looking at it from his point of view. Didn’t all his possessions end up in evidence? He’s going to have a hard time concentrating on helping you catch the Dutchman if he’s worried about feeding and clothing himself for a new job where everyone’s watching him, waiting for him to screw up.”

Peter looked tired, the lines on his face more pronounced than usual. He pulled Satch away from a hydrant with a touch of impatience. “As long as he’s decent, no one’s going to care what he’s wearing.”

“Hon.” Even Peter couldn’t really believe that. “Appearances are important, especially for someone like Neal Caffrey.” 

“He’s there to work, not run cons.” Peter shook his head firmly. “He doesn’t have to make an impression. It’s better if he doesn’t.”

El sighed, giving in. “Well, maybe he can find something decent at a thrift store.”

“That’s right.” Peter sounded relieved. 

They turned the corner into their street. Almost home. “I heard the Goodwill on West 79th Street has a good selection.”

Peter stopped. “Oh, you heard that. El—” 

“I know, I know, don’t get invested.” She took his arm, quashing her guilty conscience, and smiled up at him innocently. A word here, a listening ear there: she’d hardly done anything. Peter was still watching her with a frown, and El made a face. “Okay, it’s possible I may be a little bit invested.”

Peter sighed heavily and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I know what you mean.”

El’s breath caught, and she squeezed his arm. It was inevitable Peter’s protective instincts would come to the fore sooner or later, and she loved him for it, but hearing him admit it aloud still gave her pause. His job was on the line; if his affections were also at risk, the whole enterprise could end in heartbreak. Whatever Kate said about Neal, he was a con artist and a thief, and it was Peter’s job to manage him. 

El couldn’t undo what she’d done, but it was time to stop. She’d honored her promise to Kate and taken a few small steps to alleviate the worst of Neal’s parole conditions. The rest was up to him. If he was as good as everyone said, and if he accepted Peter’s guiding hand, she was sure he’d manage just fine.

 

END


End file.
